


Borderline

by radioaktiv



Series: Fallout Kiss Prompts [3]
Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Butch is... Butch, Charon is drunk, Developing Relationship, Drunken Kissing, F/M, First Kiss, Internal Conflict, Short One Shot, idiots to lovers, my LW is stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioaktiv/pseuds/radioaktiv
Summary: Both his hands hit the wall at her sides, effectively locking her in place. It’s not a punch, but the metal protests the abuse again. Recoiling, she’s finally concerned for the first time, but he’s… he’s still too close. And the scotch running in her veins enthusiastically points out the thickness of his biceps.Too close.“Are you going to own up all that—flirting,or you’re just making a fool out of me?”Charon has been toyed with for long enough, and it's time to settle that once and for all — alcohol and anger are not appropriate combinations, but together, they may sometimes combust into unexpected results.Written for akiss promptrequest, "Kiss Forcefully".
Relationships: Charon (Fallout)/Female Lone Wanderer, Charon (Fallout)/Lone Wanderer
Series: Fallout Kiss Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674109
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	Borderline

Annoyed was an understatement.

In fact, annoyed didn’t even _begin_ to cut it.

The Muddy Rudder never felt smaller, despite all the empty chairs and open space. It also never looked darker, or maybe the neon signs and lights were not actually all facing towards her like a dedicated spotlight show.

But there he was. Sitting too close - even though he was at the normal tool seat distance. And there she was: glowing in blues and yellows and a sunset hair to frame it.

As he studies the light on her face beneath the neon signs of the bar, a single bead of sweat forms under the heat of the stuffy enclosure and moves unopposed across her cheekbone, balancing itself there for a moment. As she enthusiastically proceeds to argue with DeLoria, it rolls down the curve of her jaw before running down her exposed neck _slowly_. Across the tendon, down her throat, and continues to descend unhinged where he cannot follow anymore.

Gripping his empty bottle harder, Charon has to force himself to look away, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. There are thousands of memories embedded into his mind, some gruesome, few worth looking out for, but he felt like this drop of sweat would haunt him from now on.

“Another.”

Bonny looks askance at him, but if the old woman had any thoughts, she didn’t spare them. He didn’t bother to know either. As soon there’s another bottle whiskey in his line of sight, he takes it.

Days and days of teasing and hints with both meaning and meaningless implications occupied his head far too much for his liking. Yet a delirious, buried deep part of him insisted into pawing at that spark of hope no matter how much he tried to quench it down.

Farren was driving him _insane_. He hated it. And yet, he found himself falling harder in that senseless joke for the same reason.

With a theatrical sigh, she threw both hands in the air before sliding off the stool. “You know what Butch, I’m done. You’re too dumb, and I’m too drunk.”

The greaser tried to argue, but she quieted him with a slurred _shh_ as she attempted to press a finger against his mouth only to lose balance. Instinctively, the ghoul reached with enviable reaction speed even if he had already taken his fair share of alcohol that night too.

Looking half-confusedly, half-grateful at the hand who kept her from pathetically faceplanting on the metal floor, Farren nods at him with a smirk that has him release the grip promptly, recoiling like a startled fish at the face of promising but suspicious bait.

“Yep, guess I should hit the bed.” She taps his shoulder, and in Charon’s mind, her hand stays there a little too long, slender and warm fingers - even through the fabric of his shirt. Using him as support to lean over to the counter and throw Bonny’s owned caps, he has to deal with the warmth irradiating from her whole body now. “G’night you two, don’t die.”

She leaves, and Butch resumes whatever nonsense talking they were set into. But that drop of sweat replays in his head in perfect image, and when it disappears under the collar of her shirt, it’s his imagination that fills in the blank.

Ire becomes too much to bear, and with gritted teeth, Charon stands.

Maybe Butch says something, and the barwoman points out his drink is still full, but he makes to the stairs and the door without looking back.

Farren was still there when he burst through, having just closed it after passing herself. At this time of the night, the corridors of Rivet City are empty, quiet aside from the occasional metal wailing of the old ship.

Not intimidated by her startled look, or by the obvious contractual restrictions, or even by the public space, alcohol, and frustration fuel him like gasoline, and he’s not gentle when he pushes her by the shoulders against the wall behind. The _clang_ resonates to both sides of the hallways, and there’s a moment of mortifying silence as they stare at each other.

He had seen her in better shape before. Skin glowing, groomed hair, rested features. Here, now, after watching her father die and then get rejected by the people she considered family, Farren was almost someone else in comparison. Sunburnt, disheveled locks, almost permanently tainted dark circles under wrinkled and tired eyes. In this poor, almost hollow state, ' _You are all I have now.'_ sings in his mind and Charon almost gives in and throws his fears aside to hold her.

But he doesn’t.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the shock, but as she finds herself cornered by the towering man _way too close_ , Farren struggles with forming any train of thought. He’s too close. _He’s too close_. And by the wrinkles forming on the tattered skin of his furrowed brows and the intensity of his otherwise worn out eyes, _he’s furious_. Somehow, distinguishing between good and bad is inconceivable at the moment.

Warmth pools in Farren’s cheeks, and all the way down to her stomach.

“That’s enough.” He seethes, and the hairs of her neck stand. “Two weeks? Three weeks? Can’t fucking count anymore.”

“Charon-”

Both his hands hit the wall at her sides, effectively locking her in place. It’s not a punch, but the metal protests the abuse again. Recoiling, she’s finally concerned for the first time, but he’s… he’s still _too close_. And the scotch running in her veins enthusiastically points out the thickness of his biceps. _Too close_.

“Are you going to own up all that flirting or you’re just making a fool out of me?”

 _Fuck_.

She would have said it, but even when her mouth opened, nothing but air went out. Farren tried again. And again. Nothing. Most brilliant person in the Vault - right now though? Nothing. How do you explain you want something when the something is within kissable range?

She struggles, maybe for a minute, face growing redder, before admitting victory to being incapable of speaking, eyes going downwards to the ground. There’s quiet for a moment, a stillness on both that makes time seem suspended. When he shifts, gently, palms curling into fists against the wall, she musters the courage to look up.

In the confinement of pearl-blue irises, anger gave space to disappointment. Something she had never witnessed in that man from day one. Charon was a whole dimension of feelings, carefully locked behind the layer of aloofness and stoicism. They were there though if you looked long enough, and _cared_ strong enough.

“I thought so.”

Farren doesn’t know where it comes from, nor she cares to find out at the moment. It’s in a heartbeat, strong enough within her chest, when she pounces as he slips away, urgency numbing her finger tips. Before he’s out of reach, and it’s not physically she’s worried about. There’s a brief moment where _he_ gets to be the one shocked as her fingers tangle into his shirt firmly, and she doesn’t bother standing on her toes when she yanks him down gracelessly.

There’s a taste of whiskey and cigarette on the surface of his skin when their lips press together. Smoke that she’d always hated, but now loved all the same. It’s awkward, stiff and lifeless. An invitation rather than a full-fledged action.

He doesn’t know what to do.

With rigid arms pressed against the wall and bent over her smaller form clumsily, Charon’s eyes refuse to close. It takes him a second or two to consider and subsequently write out the possibility of some delusional, stupor induced delirium. But her lips are there, and they are soft, and there’s lingering scotch in them, inviting. He tries to pull away, but in her drunk yet persistent haze, the only thing her hands do is hold tighter and pin him in place.

When the pressure on their lips falters, he makes another attempt to retreat, red sirens blasting inside his skull painfully, but she doesn't let go again. ' _You are all I have now.'_

Suddenly finding the connection to his limbs, Charon’s hand finds its way to the nape of her neck, hot to the touch, fingers tangled on hair and skin, and he holds on tightly. With a faint gasp, her mouth opens to receive him, and his tongue takes the plunge without permission. It’s no better than the first, way too desperate, but it’s a momentary bliss he’s physically unable to jerk away from. It’s guilty, and it hurts. He’s not allowed that. Has never been.

Teeth keeps getting in the way of teeth, and in the attempt to match their mouths better, her lower lip crosses over by his. Something in the back of his mind begs him to back away, but he bites into soft flesh gently, her breath audibly losing rhythm when he slowly pulls it. When the effort feels one-sided, it’s Farren’s tongue that seeks him, pressing warm against his and leaving imprints all over like it wants to write her name letter by letter until it’s all he speaks. He doesn’t know anymore if the whiskey comes from her or him, but it went from bitter to miraculously sweet.

The door behind them slams open, having them part away with a wet _plop_ as the corridors once again echo with the aggression. Charon’s large stride easily places them far away enough to be convincing when they both stare at Butch’s wobbly form on the doorframe, bottle on one hand.

There’s a brief silence as he looks from one to another a few times.

“Uh, you two good?”

“We’re- yeah. S’all good.” Her face is still red, but so is her fellow vault-dweller. And Butch is too drunk to have a better judgment.

“Oookay then.” Another brief silence, and he finally looks over to Charon, motioning the bottle towards him. “You left that behind and it was paid so…”

“Yeah. Keep it.” He’s stiff, but once again, DeLoria remains none the wiser. “I’m off to bed.”

The corridor gets unbearably cold when he leaves, even though her forehead is covered in sweat and her skin feels feverish.

Farren swallows. "I'm going too."


End file.
